Lori’s mother, Lenora, died on Saturday, May 3rd. Her life’s end got me to thinking about my eventual demise—and also the death of close family members.
Dad, my Irish side, was the first to go. He fell while on a wood extension ladder. The ladder slipped and fell to the ground—one of its rungs had broken under his weight—and he died four days later of internal injuries. I was supposed to be standing on the bottom rung in order to give the ladder stability, but Johnny Nelson, my best friend from across the street had called me over for something, and I left my ladder-tending duties—only temporarily. Then, I heard Dad’s scream during or after his fall. I blamed myself for many years that it was I who caused my old man’s death. That was one, heavy burden. I was twelve years old.
After the funeral, Mother—for that is what she wanted to be called—gathered her flock of five in the living room around the dining room table and asked, “Do you want to talk about him?” The vote was four to one, mine the minority ballot. “Okay, then,” said Mother. “We won’t say another word about him.”
And we didn’t.
When we visited my mother’s sister, our Fat Aunt Florence who lived in Oak Park, a Chicago suburb, (we had a Skinny Aunt Florence on the Smullen side of the family who lived on Chicago’s Wrightwood Avenue) I was stunned to see a photo of my dad in a casket on her living room wall. “Why do you have that up there?” I asked.
Fat Aunt Florence shrugged and said, “Because I want to.”
Many years later, I wrote a poem, entitled, “Dad-in-a-Box.”
As a teenager, I hated to go to the basement to retrieve something for Mother because I thought Dad was waiting for me down there in the dark with an open casket and he’d stuff me in it and bury me. I could’ve broken Olympic records in my dash down and up those stairs.
As a teenager, whenever I walked home at night from visiting a friend or attending a movie at the Palace, Wisconsin, or Rapids theaters, I’d think Dad was just behind me, pushing an open casket on one of those deathly silent chrome affairs that open like an accordion. I pictured him stuffing me inside the casket, closing the lid, screwing it shut, and burying me next to him in Calvary Cemetery. I ran like hell. He never caught me. Dies Irae. How frightened I was back then. But I wore a good bluff.
As with most people, Dad had his good side and he also had his bad side. It was difficult for me to recall the good until I reached my early forties. That’s when I discovered I had turned out like him in ways that I swore would never occur. Reality gave me a sound boot in the behind. I got down on my knees and forgave him for being the human he was because I desperately needed forgiveness, as well.
And because I was like him, I have a son and daughter who want nothing to do with me although I made face to face amends to each. Too bad. They’re missing out on knowing a helluva nice guy.
In the timeline of family deaths, the next to die were my twin daughters, who lived only days.
Mother, my Italian side, lived to be almost ninety. A tiny gal, she was as strong and tenacious a person as I’ve ever known. She reared five children by herself, never remarried, and worked as a bookkeeper until age sixty-five. She enjoyed watching TV wrestling and screamed bloody murder while I laughed and taunted her because I said it was all make believe. “They’re killing each other,” she swore. She, too, had her good side and her bad side.
My younger and only sister, Annette Smullen Atwater, died a few years ago at age 67—without any warning whatsoever. I still have a difficult time realizing that “Scaredy Cat”—my name for her when we were kids--is gone. She is sorely missed.
I turn seventy five on May 8th. I know. That’s a ridiculous age for a young man. Most folks who know me say I don’t look or act 75, but it’s a fact of my life: On Thursday, I’ll be three quarters of a century old.
I thought for much of my early days that I’d be dead at 42, the age Dad had died. At 75, I’m in excellent health as far as I know, (I refuse to have physicals and avoid going to my doctor unless I’m near death each winter with the annual funk). I take no medication, feel great, watch my diet, and exercise daily. The hearing’s going downhill a bit. Hearing aid is in my near future.
I have many good friends who know me as a straight shooter. I have a loving wife and a loving daughter, as well. What more could a guy ask for? Only God knows how much time I have left. I decided over thirty years ago that I was going to live the rest of my natural life to its fullest each and every day. And that is who I have become.
So, goodbye Lenora. You had your good side and bad, as well. Like most of us, you were no better than the best, no worse than the worst, but somewhere in between like ninety-five per cent of the rest of the human race. Requiescat in Pace.
Dad, my Irish side, was the first to go. He fell while on a wood extension ladder. The ladder slipped and fell to the ground—one of its rungs had broken under his weight—and he died four days later of internal injuries. I was supposed to be standing on the bottom rung in order to give the ladder stability, but Johnny Nelson, my best friend from across the street had called me over for something, and I left my ladder-tending duties—only temporarily. Then, I heard Dad’s scream during or after his fall. I blamed myself for many years that it was I who caused my old man’s death. That was one, heavy burden. I was twelve years old.
After the funeral, Mother—for that is what she wanted to be called—gathered her flock of five in the living room around the dining room table and asked, “Do you want to talk about him?” The vote was four to one, mine the minority ballot. “Okay, then,” said Mother. “We won’t say another word about him.”
And we didn’t.
When we visited my mother’s sister, our Fat Aunt Florence who lived in Oak Park, a Chicago suburb, (we had a Skinny Aunt Florence on the Smullen side of the family who lived on Chicago’s Wrightwood Avenue) I was stunned to see a photo of my dad in a casket on her living room wall. “Why do you have that up there?” I asked.
Fat Aunt Florence shrugged and said, “Because I want to.”
Many years later, I wrote a poem, entitled, “Dad-in-a-Box.”
As a teenager, I hated to go to the basement to retrieve something for Mother because I thought Dad was waiting for me down there in the dark with an open casket and he’d stuff me in it and bury me. I could’ve broken Olympic records in my dash down and up those stairs.
As a teenager, whenever I walked home at night from visiting a friend or attending a movie at the Palace, Wisconsin, or Rapids theaters, I’d think Dad was just behind me, pushing an open casket on one of those deathly silent chrome affairs that open like an accordion. I pictured him stuffing me inside the casket, closing the lid, screwing it shut, and burying me next to him in Calvary Cemetery. I ran like hell. He never caught me. Dies Irae. How frightened I was back then. But I wore a good bluff.
As with most people, Dad had his good side and he also had his bad side. It was difficult for me to recall the good until I reached my early forties. That’s when I discovered I had turned out like him in ways that I swore would never occur. Reality gave me a sound boot in the behind. I got down on my knees and forgave him for being the human he was because I desperately needed forgiveness, as well.
And because I was like him, I have a son and daughter who want nothing to do with me although I made face to face amends to each. Too bad. They’re missing out on knowing a helluva nice guy.
In the timeline of family deaths, the next to die were my twin daughters, who lived only days.
Mother, my Italian side, lived to be almost ninety. A tiny gal, she was as strong and tenacious a person as I’ve ever known. She reared five children by herself, never remarried, and worked as a bookkeeper until age sixty-five. She enjoyed watching TV wrestling and screamed bloody murder while I laughed and taunted her because I said it was all make believe. “They’re killing each other,” she swore. She, too, had her good side and her bad side.
My younger and only sister, Annette Smullen Atwater, died a few years ago at age 67—without any warning whatsoever. I still have a difficult time realizing that “Scaredy Cat”—my name for her when we were kids--is gone. She is sorely missed.
I turn seventy five on May 8th. I know. That’s a ridiculous age for a young man. Most folks who know me say I don’t look or act 75, but it’s a fact of my life: On Thursday, I’ll be three quarters of a century old.
I thought for much of my early days that I’d be dead at 42, the age Dad had died. At 75, I’m in excellent health as far as I know, (I refuse to have physicals and avoid going to my doctor unless I’m near death each winter with the annual funk). I take no medication, feel great, watch my diet, and exercise daily. The hearing’s going downhill a bit. Hearing aid is in my near future.
I have many good friends who know me as a straight shooter. I have a loving wife and a loving daughter, as well. What more could a guy ask for? Only God knows how much time I have left. I decided over thirty years ago that I was going to live the rest of my natural life to its fullest each and every day. And that is who I have become.
So, goodbye Lenora. You had your good side and bad, as well. Like most of us, you were no better than the best, no worse than the worst, but somewhere in between like ninety-five per cent of the rest of the human race. Requiescat in Pace.